


to the victor

by thecaryatid



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Bottom Sylvain Jose Gautier, Breathplay, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Training Room Sex, bottom Sylvain rights, only a little bit of breathplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:01:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22059739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecaryatid/pseuds/thecaryatid
Summary: “You’re pretty distracting sometimes, Felix.” Sylvain cuts through whatever scolding Felix was in the middle of and shudders against the press of the sword as he speaks. “Hard to think about footwork when I’ve got you looking at me like that. C'mon, you beat me four times. Don't you want a reward?"
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 24
Kudos: 334





	to the victor

Sylvain’s lance clatters out of his hands for the third time as his sparring partner lunges forward with a mind-searing amount of speed and ferocity. And sure, Felix is a little better than Sylvain at this, but mostly they’re evenly matched these days and losing so easily three times in a row is starting to feel a bit humiliating. 

Felix sneers at him across the sand, attacking again even though Sylvain’s still fumbling his lance back off the ground. He barely raises it in time to block the first thrust. Felix slips past his defenses fluidly, precisely, with almost lazy skill. He whacks at the inside of Sylvain’s wrist with his training sword before hooking one foot under Sylvain’s left ankle. 

This time Sylvain tumbles to the ground along with his lance. Felix levels the sword at his throat. 

“What’s wrong with you today? This is pathetic.” 

Trust Felix to get so worked up about an off day of sparring. But Sylvain is gasping for breath and has sand sticking to every inch of his sweat-covered skin. Felix isn’t even breathing hard. So, yeah, it might be a little pathetic. 

“I guess I'm a little distracted,” he breathes out, staring up the sword and straight into Felix’s eyes. “Can’t a guy lose occasionally without getting yelled at?”

Felix is probably fantasizing about actually stabbing him, from the look of his snarl and the line between his eyes. He does actually shift until the blunt point of the training sword presses against Sylvain’s throat, and the firm pressure is so distracting he misses Felix’s next sentence. It’s probably just more complaining, anyway. 

“You’re pretty distracting sometimes, kitten.” Sylvain cuts through whatever scolding Felix was in the middle of and shudders against the press of the sword as he speaks. “Hard to think about footwork when I’ve got you looking at me like that. I’m definitely not gonna be able to focus after this.” 

He tilts his head back as far as he can, which isn’t much considering his position on the floor, but it’s enough to get his point across and press the training sword a bit more firmly against his throat. “C’mon, Felix,” he gasps out, a little breathier than strictly necessary. “You beat me four times. Don’t you want a reward?” 

Felix is still stern above him but his eyes trace the way Sylvain is lying, all shallow breathing and flushed cheeks and exposed neck. Felix smirks, and Sylvain knows he’s already won. 

“I suppose I deserve something for beating you so easily.” The blunt sword rubs over Sylvain’s adams apple and down across his collarbones, pauses at the base of his ribs where Felix knows he’s ticklish, and finally trails down to tap at his groin. 

It’s no stimulation at all, just the barest hint of pressure. Sylvain whines and arches up anyway, Felix’s commanding posture more than enough to get him gasping in anticipation. 

“I’ll be a good prize for you, kitten. You deserve anything you want.”

This isn’t a game they play often. Felix is usually too focused on actually training to consider Sylvain’s taunts, but occasionally even he can’t resist. Occasionally Sylvain finds himself knocked to the floor one too many times and then fucked bent over a rack of training weapons, or pinned down with a dick in his mouth, or teased until he begs. Training room sex is rare but always so good, and Felix is more confident here than he is in an actual bed. Unsurprisingly, Sylvain supposes. 

“Good.” There’s that smile again, an amused easing of the lines around Felix’s eyes, that golden gaze pinning Sylvain down much more thoroughly than the training sword. “You lost, of course, so don’t do anything I don’t tell you to.” 

“Felix, kitten, sweetheart, I'll follow any order you give,” and Sylvain cuts off as the sword slips further down and nudges apart the inside of his thighs. Sylvain splays them open. “My love, my muse, my life, I’ll spread my legs for you, I’ll scream your name - “ Sylvain’s always talkative during sex, babbling out whatever he thinks, whispering encouragement and begging so easy, especially for Felix. 

But there’s a sword point tapping at his mouth now, and Felix is saying “Don’t talk. Make as much noise as you want, but no words.” 

Sylvain whines. “Feliiiiiix,” he says, and stops before launching into another sentence. He’s rewarded with Felix settling down with a knee on either side of Sylvain’s chest, resting just enough weight to make breathing a conscious effort, and running a thumb thoughtfully over Sylvain’s mouth. 

“...you can say my name,” Felix says finally. “Nothing else.” 

“Mmmm, Felix.” Sylvain breathes as much tenderness into it as possible and leans up to kiss Felix’s thumb. It’s a good rule. Felix hates admitting just how much he likes his name on Sylvain’s lips, and Sylvain isn’t shy about how much he likes to say it. Win-win. 

“Felix,” he says again, grabbing one of his hands and pressing kisses down the palm and then onto a soft wrist. Above him Felix flushes at the tenderness, and the hand is pulled away. 

“Don’t touch me,” Felix says, arranging Sylvain’s hands on either side of his head. “Keep your hands there.” 

Sylvain peers up at him. Felix is always sensitive about touch, but right now he’s still wearing that wicked little smile no one else ever gets to see. He’s enjoying this, making Sylvain helpless. Sylvain moans his approval and lets his muscles go slack, relaxing into whatever Felix wants of him. 

Which is, apparently, just to touch. Calloused hands stroke his eyes closed and caress his ears and linger again at his mouth, teasing the bottom lip until he lets his mouth fall open and opens his eyes to see Felix hovering just an inch away from kissing. He pulls away from Sylvain’s wanting little whimper. He’s so _close_ , Sylvain could drag Felix down for a proper kiss, but he did promise he’d be good.

Felix’s eyes are dark and amused. He’s enjoying Sylvain’s struggle - his mouth is doing that cute lopsided thing that happens when he’s trying not to laugh. Sylvain would be annoyed if it were someone else, but it’s Felix’s eyes resting on his and Felix holding him down with just the weight of expectation and Felix moving with careful slowness, probably not even to tease. Probably just because he’s so methodical about everything and because it’s an excuse to take all of Sylvain’s attention and because if he moves slow and careful he can pretend he’s not still flustered by all of this. 

And Sylvain waits, and wants, squirming where Felix’s hands are lazily slipping into his shirt, breathing quick and whispering Felix’s name in a prayer far more sincere than any he spoke at the monastery. Robbed as he is of voice and movement Sylvain can only stare, drinks in how the sharp angles of Felix’s face are cast bright and shadowed by the light at his back, regal as a fallen saint and sharp as a sword and unbearably warm. 

Yeah, Sylvain’s got it bad. And he can feel himself aching with hardness even though Felix has done basically nothing, even though the hands stroking his skin disappear every time he gets too comfortable, like Felix can’t get enough of making him squirm. It is, in fact, extremely hot. 

Sylvain’s shirt is finally peeled off entirely, Felix awkwardly maneuvering his arms through it and then tossing it carelessly out of sight. Sylvain snickers a little: Felix is always tossing things around like that. It’s odd how messy Felix is when he’s so precise in everything else. 

His laugh cuts off when a hand presses against his throat, careful at first and then hard enough that Sylvain feels all the ridged joints in perfect relief and can barely force out enough air to make a piteous whine. And, yup, he’s definitely hard now, like he’ll die of frustration if Felix waits any longer to touch him. 

But he promised he’d be a good reward, so Sylvain stays sprawled out with his legs splayed apart and his hands above his head in surrender, whimpering out little breaths while Felix’s hand still presses at his throat and the other starts carelessly playing with a nipple. 

“You seem very flippant for someone in your position,” Felix whispers above him.

Sylvain just lets his mouth fall open and his eyes drift half shut, offering anything Felix wants to take. And Felix leans down to take a kiss, finally, rough and sloppy, starting with a tongue in his mouth and ending with a sharp bite to his lower lip once Sylvain gets a little too greedy, a little too close to controlling instead of surrendering. 

He whimpers at the loss of the weight and warmth when Felix finally slips from his perch on Sylvain’s chest. “Feeeelix,” he says, eloquently. And then whines for another reason when Felix settles between his legs and rubs his knuckles over the bulge of Sylvain’s cock. It’s so little, the sensation’s more imagination and wishful thinking than actual pressure. It’s more than enough to get Sylvain grinding up against Felix’s hand and making desperate little gasps, doing his best to beg with all his body. 

Felix lets his hand rest there and watches. It’s like he’s waiting for something specific, although Sylvain doesn’t know what - for his noises to become mindless and desperate? For him to give up and go limp on the sand again, waiting for Felix to decide he’s teased enough? 

He’s just deciding whether to give up on his struggles when Felix moves, _finally_ , pressing the heel of his hand into Sylvain’s cock. He moans and spreads his legs even wider. The thin layers of fabric between him and Felix’s hand are frustratingly inconvenient now, keeping pressure from turning into the far more electric delight of calloused fingers stroking silky skin. 

Felix is predictable in his impatience. He rubs the front of Sylvain’s pants a few more times but Sylvain’s moans grow quieter and the desperate arch of his back turns into weak, resigned rolls of his hips and Sylvain watches him give a frustrated little sigh before he finally undoes buttons and yanks layers of fabric down in one quick motion. 

Or it would be one quick motion if Sylvain wasn’t still wearing boots. Sylvain lies there with his pants pooled around his ankles while Felix also realizes that Sylvain is still wearing boots and removes them with a ferocity that they definitely don’t deserve, tossing them into a far corner of the room. Which is hilarious and cute enough that Sylvain’s chuckling again and maybe someday they should have a talk about whether it’s really necessary to throw his clothes around like that every time, but Felix’s hand on his throat again cuts off every productive thought. And also Sylvain’s air. It’s the opposite of a problem. Sylvain thinks maybe he should consider what it means that he’s so willing to let Felix hold him like this, just a few pounds of pressure away from death. 

The pathetic whine he forces out softens Felix’s glare back into a smirk. “You do want to come, don’t you? I can pin you down and use your mouth if you keep laughing like that.” 

The image of Felix using him to get off and then just _leaving_ Sylvain lying there untouched and unsatisfied is compelling enough that he considers laughing again just to spur Felix on. But he’s already aching with every kind of want he can name and a few more besides, lust and love and the craving for touch and for Felix’s pleased little smile, so he lets the moment pass and just whimpers again. He feels the press of his throat shifting against Felix’s hand as he tries to fit all of the surrender he can into the noise. 

Above him Felix smiles and says “Good,” and Sylvain wonders if it's possible to orgasm just from his lovers approval. 

Sylvain’s pretty sure he’s trembling. Felix hovers above him calm and confident and looking as impeccable as he did when he first knocked the lance out of Sylvain’s hand, coat buttoned and hair up and steady gaze in place. And Sylvain is sprawled out naked, legs spread open and cock achingly hard and spilling little noises that get cut off by Felix’s steady hand before they can reach his lips. And, gods, it’s a moment that lasts forever and Sylvain is pretty sure he’s going to _die_ under Felix’s gaze and touch and control, and there’s nothing he can do but beg without words. 

Felix’s hand leaves his neck again and Sylvain draws in a grateful gasp of breath. Then he squirms, whining high and bereft, because suddenly Felix isn’t touching him at all, isn’t resting graceful and imperious above him, and Sylvain would much rather let Felix draw the air from his body than move out of his line of sight. 

But Sylvain lies, quivering, hands clenched on nothing above his head and knees shamelessly bent and Felix standing above, surveying. 

“I was planning to fuck you, but I’m not sure you’d survive lying here while I went to find some lube.” 

Sylvain’s pretty sure Felix wouldn’t be at all torn up about leaving him here. Sylvain’s pretty sure Felix would enjoy coming back gods know how long later, once Sylvain’s too desperate to do anything but sob as he finally gets fucked open. And he’d stay, _of course_ he’d stay, quaking on the sand and waiting for Felix’s leisurely return. 

But luckily Sylvain hoped he’d get fucked tonight, and Felix can probably forgive him speaking as long as it’s to give actual information. So Sylvain lifts his head and says “Look in my coat.” 

Felix stares. Sylvain whines a little, just to show that he isn’t making a habit of ignoring Felix’s rules. He whines more when Felix moves out of his sight, even though he’s probably going to check Sylvain’s coat. Sylvain tries to even out his breathing while he listens to the soft noises of Felix stepping away and rummaging through fabric. 

It’s moments before Felix steps back into view, holding a small vial and squinting judgmentally down. Sylvain shrugs sheepishly with just his shoulders and doesn’t defend himself. 

Not that he needs to defend himself, anyway - there’s nothing wrong with how eager he is for Felix. If anything Felix should be the defensive one, always so reluctant to get into these situations until he caves all at once and goes from careful distance to, well, stripping Sylvain and choking him on the floor. So Sylvain follows the shrug up with the broadest, smuggest grin he can and watches Felix roll his eyes.

Whatever exasperation he’s feeling doesn’t stop him from kneeling down and brushing sweaty hair from Sylvain’s forehead before slipping the vial into his right hand. 

Sylvain makes an interested noise, and then a questioning whine. Because what the fuck is he supposed to do with that while both of his hands are kept limp and useless over his head? 

One of Felix’s hands reaches down to stroke the inside of Sylvain’s thighs and he goes deathly still, as though not moving might tempt Felix to move on to his cock. And he does, wrapping a firm hand around Sylvain’s length and running a thumb consideringly over the tip. Sylvain inhales all at once, and moans out deep. Felix moves on far too soon - Sylvain whines - and then rubs his fingers slowly over Sylvain’s entrance, and Sylvain _whines_. His breath hitches out in whimper after desperate whimper, hips pressing upwards.

And Felix doesn’t do anything, the asshole, the smug little fucker, just stays there with fingers circling while Sylvain _dies_. 

“Fe, Felix, Felix,” he gasps and then stops before _Felix_ can turn into chants of _please, please, please_. Felix smirks, the bastard, laughing at Sylvain’s desperation. 

It’s beautiful, the sound of Felix’s mirth. Sylvain closes his eyes and tries to memorize this moment, his own willing helplessness and Felix’s delight. But also, seriously, if Felix doesn’t get on with it Sylvain’s going to murder him in their bed. 

“Finger yourself open if you’re so desperate.” Felix is trying for stern but his tone is stuck in lust and heady amusement.

Sylvain raises the little bottle questioningly - surely this is permission to move, but it never hurts to check. Felix nods at him, roughly shoves his thighs even further apart, and settles himself comfortably on the sand. 

How best to do this? Sylvain considers before tugging his left leg close to his chest and then clumsily dousing his fingers with the little bottle. 

Felix looks like he wants a show; Sylvain will oblige. He’s careful not to brush his cock as he reaches down, knee still tucked against his chest for better access and, more importantly, to show Felix how yielding he is. Sylvain thinks he hears an interested little sound but loses track of any reaction Felix might be having as he presses two fingers in, deep as they’ll go, rougher than he’d usually be with himself. It’s impossible not to keen when he finds that smooth little lump of tissue, stroking around the edges at first and then fucking himself rough and firm as he acclimates. He fits in a third finger probably before he’s ready, partly from desperation and partly from the urge to feel the burn of fullness, but mostly to watch the way Felix’s eyes widen. 

Felix watches like Sylvain’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, like he’s all the world's presents rolled into one, like he’s never wanted anything more than this, right now, watching Sylvain willing and obedient beneath him. Sylvain loves it. Sylvain loves _him_. 

It’s a relief when Felix finally stands up. Sylvain lets his fingers still as Felix strips his own clothes off, though he keeps the pose. He croons in satisfaction as Felix reaches an imperious hand for the oil and Sylvain gives it, lingering in Felix’s palm just to feel the drag of skin on skin. 

“Put your hands back where they were,” Felix snaps. Sylvain obliges, pulling fingers out of his ass with a squelch and a deep feeling of loss, settling his wrists next to his head. 

“Good,” Felix says, and Sylvain wonders if he’s realized yet just how weak Sylvain is for his praise. 

He finishes stripping and Sylvain stares, as he always, _always_ does when it comes to Felix. 

He’s beautiful, all sharp lines and mended scars. And Felix lets him stare, as he always does these days, lets Sylvain watch as he tugs the tie out of his hair and finally reaches down to coat his own cock in oil. 

Sylvain barely breathes while Felix positions himself between his legs, stretching until the head of his cock rubs at Sylvain while his hands press Sylvain’s wrists into the floor. Felix’s orders are sharp and unbending and his hands are leaving bruises. But his smile softens into something small and unguarded, a secret thing protected by a waterfall of dark hair and the locked door of the training room and by Sylvain’s own devoted heart. 

“Felix,” he says again, gentle as he can. 

For once Felix doesn’t blush. “Sylvain,” he says, softer than a kiss. 

And then he’s pressing inside and Sylvain is straining against Felix’s hands, fighting to reach out and pull him closer, bury hands in Felix’s hair and bite down on the join of his shoulders. 

Felix _laughs_ as he snaps his hips and watches Sylvain fight. “ _Sylvain_ ,” he says teasingly. “Keep your hands where they are.” 

And he lets go. Felix releases Sylvain’s wrists and sits back to place his hands on Sylvain’s hips instead, leverage to fuck him harder. 

Staying still is the hardest thing he’s ever done. Sylvain has fought while his veins emptied themselves out; he’s killed and killed and nearly died, agonizingly, over and over. He’s pretty sure none of it compares to the effort of keeping himself from reaching for Felix as he’s fucked into the floor, begging incoherently for nothing and everything, hands grasping at air. 

It would be easier if Felix weren’t using all of his impressive strength and precision to rub the head of his cock into Sylvain’s prostate with every stroke. It would be easier if he didn’t look so tempting, lording it over naked and disheveled Sylvain. 

But he eventually settles into it. Sylvain finds a rhythm, letting his eyes roll back and making every pathetic noise he can. His hands fall open, surrendered in the sand. 

It’s impossible to tell how long they last. Time stopped at about Felix’s fifth thrust. But his whimpers turn into a chanted “felix, felix, felix” turn into howls as Felix doesn’t let go or slow down, as he pauses just long enough to adjust his grip and run a soothing hand over the red marks his thumbs have left. 

It’s long enough that Sylvain’s back to thinking he might die, and his voice is starting to feel raw, and he’s long since stopped trying to meet Felix’s thrusts and just clings limp, letting Felix use him. He misses the moment when Felix goes from kneeling between his legs to propped up over him, but suddenly he’s staring up into amber eyes and the cock in his ass is jolting with less rhythm than before. Felix groans, louder than he has all evening.

Felix takes three deep breaths - Sylvain counts them - before reaching down and wrapping a hand around Sylvain’s cock. It’s heaven; rough skin and firm pressure stroking over his sensitive dick. He comes immediately, hips hitching pathetically, with one more whimper of _Felix_.

Everything goes soft and quiet as Felix pulls out and slips back to Sylvain’s chest, leaning down to kiss his forehead and then his mouth. He doesn’t pull away when Sylvain winds a hand into his hair and Sylvain takes all the advantage he can, tugging Felix down for kiss after kiss, making up for all the time he spent still and voiceless. 

“Wasn’t I a great prize?” He says as soon as he finds his voice. 

“I suppose,” Felix says. But he’s smiling and that means _yes, completely amazing_ in Felix-speak. Which is nice, but it won’t do, actually - Sylvain spent all this time doing everything Felix asked and he’s going to insist on hearing some proper praise. 

So when Felix stands up - probably to look for the hair tie he discarded earlier - Sylvain wraps a hand around his ankle and yanks, and Felix goes down like a pile of bricks. He yelps as Sylvain presses them both to the floor, twisting one arm and pinning Felix down. Not hard enough to hurt, just enough to keep him from running off. 

Felix glares over his shoulder. “Sylvaaaainnn,” he whines. 

“I need more than an ‘I suppose’, Fe,” Sylvain says, right against Felix’s ear. “C’mon, tell me how much you enjoyed that.” 

Felix’s glare doesn’t grow any less annoyed. 

“For me?” Sylvain prompts. 

“Fine,” Felix says, a little exasperated. “That was - good. You were good.”

“Aren’t you happy I kept losing?” 

“ _Yes_ ,” Felix snarls, “How many times do I have to say it, that was _good_.” 

Sylvain rolls his eyes. Talking about positive feelings is still sometimes beyond Felix. 

“I’m not letting you up until you say it properly.” Yeah, Sylvain might be a little petulant, but Felix can fucking tell him how much he liked, uh, fucking him. 

True to form, Felix struggles for a second, testing how determined Sylvain is. Finally he sighs. “ _Okay._ ” He sighs again. 

“I’m not hearing much praise there, kitten.” 

Felix elbows him with his free arm. “Sylvain,” he says, uncharacteristically soft. “You were - perfect. You always feel so good. You make _me_ feel so good.” he pauses, looks over his shoulder again. “Happy?” 

Sylvain presses a kiss to the back of his neck. “Better, but not quite. Tell me what you liked the most.”

And Felix is blushing all the way to his ears. Sylvain carefully releases his hold and strokes Felix’s cheek; he doesn't fight. “Please? I like to hear it.” 

Felix doesn’t struggle. He stills, leaning into Sylvain’s hand and squeezing his eyes shut like he’s thinking very hard. 

“I liked -" he says, and stops. 

“Come on, kitten,” Sylvain murmurs. “It’s just me. Only me. And it means _so much_ when you talk to me, you know?” 

“...I liked how you obeyed me,” Felix admits. As if it wasn’t obvious, as though Sylvain couldn’t tell he loved every moment of it. 

“We can always do more of that,” Sylvain says. “What else did you like?” 

Felix groans. “Really?” 

“You can do it, sweetheart. Just talk to me.” 

Felix gets that level stare he has when he’s just decided something. Sylvain holds his breath. 

“I like the way you look at me,” he says, and takes a long, shuddering breath. He looks away from Sylvain. Sylvain doesn’t press it. 

“I like the way you sound. I like how eager you are when I fuck you. I like -” Felix stops and for a second Sylvain thinks he won’t get to hear whatever Felix was about to say. 

But Felix just squirms and rolls over, pressed chest-to-chest with Sylvain, staring straight into his eyes. “I like - I love the way you say my name,” he says like it’s some huge confession. 

And maybe it is, to Felix, Sylvain thinks, stamping down his urge to laugh. This is one thing he’ll never mock Felix about, the intensity of his awkward confessions. “I love saying it, Felix,” he says, and pressed in the gentlest kiss he can. 

“Let me up now,” Felix says, already back to annoyance. 

Sylvain’s pretty sure Felix could escape whenever he wanted to. 

“I _guess_.” But he rolls onto his side and pulls Felix with him, burying his nose in the crown of Felix’s head. “You should stay a little longer.” 

Felix chuckles. “Fine,” he says, and lets himself be held. 

**Author's Note:**

> bottom sylvain rights
> 
> Anyway, I wrote this months ago and sort of thought it would be a scene in another fic. That didn't work out, so now it's a oneshot. I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> i am on twitter [here](https://twitter.com/thecaryatid) and i do yell about 3h constantly


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